Last Flare (An Old Constellation’s Love Letter)

i need a man who would fight for me to whichever length the lengths provide and lengths require

life progresses and spins and flies, but at what cost
you told me through phone calls and through subtext
with your brow broken, endowed with yer panic,
that we may not be able to provide
what the other needs in the long run
but fuck all the needs and fuck all the long runs
tell me now, tell me now, you without hesitation
without the sorriest pieces of gums in soles
what do i need when i’ve exhausted it all

get your heart broken
get it broken a lot
lock it up and out and away even
from those intending only for passing-bys
they do not deserve my world
i am capable of despising more than that

laughter is only second-rate medicine i’ll take
my chances with morphine and magazines
and i’ll tell you where i’ve been and how i’ve seen
people who forgot to make their faces funny
in hospitals, and war zones,
and beating circles, and in violent states,
and in euphoria
some towers maybe just fall apart, seamless as they were built
they no longer intimidate in the end
they no longer correct or connect
and they protrude absurd, both in solid and in spirit
you watch as the trees shadow and bend like smog for the hikers and the window slits
and they only but remind you of places you’re not allowed to go,
and maybe no key doth not fit

i am hungry for the milky way and all that satellites
the stars here, they are as disputatious as our mothers and fathers
let’s not make a habit out of vices and living in quarrelsome head spaces as residents of the unruly past who rue that which we have no power on, and so because we can only truly power on
we need to be better beings that that
need to be better people than them,
be quieter, be freakier, be
less complicit with the left-hand slither and nicer in our dithering abodes

(that’s because i don’t hide
i don’t share and i don’t want to share sure but at least I don’t
have to hide to share– luh,
don’t love ye like ye love moi)

“liberation is ageist; either you root for the young ones or you’re an old fart”

so what about those who grew up blinded only by the freely available
the vacuous cage that is mass TV, and mass radio, and mass consumptions,
what about those who do not have access to library and punch cards
and health care, and proper funding
are their love and breathing and breeding lesser
are their compost composed of things that could be fixed up all for the wiser and nicer

reading is an abode entirely your own
it is without the bloody guns of boards,
the heightened tides and thorns of those that rose

the goats, the goats flinching at the slight sight of discourse doth the grass and ground no good
it does their village, and dose their town, their country no good
(does the world no good)

i can’t hold the dam forever with these heft-less legs
i’m too expensive, too exhausting, to keep around
i’m too proud, too stubborn to stay

the act of sex without punishment is one of the highest realizations of the self
i need to actualize my being
i need to be or else what do i have
nothing but an obviously self-draining pool
and a hammock made of half-hanging heartstrings
he hath backed up, backpacking somewhere i can’t go to
i mean i want to, badly, but that’s not how the sand works

the wolves they’re already there
i can’t go on days in denial
of their presence
i think they’re here to stay
i’ll die by their fangs

people who are cheap
go for cheap
give in only into cheap

he said,
“underground or nowhere, son
underground or nowhere.”

even in death, he’s overrated
even in twilight, even in symphony
even in moderate maudlin and dynamics stuffy

lay after lay of micro-rejections
and them missing-all buzzwords work on ’em no more
they walk so slovenly and overstuffed, they seem
like experts who don’t know how to press
so, regress

soldier on, get drunk often, die young, die on

i think some days the days are for something new
learn something new to buy ‘nto something new
that’s why it’s a happy insert-the-random-thing-here day today
and happy insert-another-random-fuss-and-fuzz-and-fissure-here tomorrow
we are such commercialists and consumerists, aren’t we
we toy for such suckers, of anything and about anything
to distract the speakers, anything that glimmers and glosses, and wins and losses,
old train sets or perfume bottles or sepia filters or color functions or vanilla
extracts– they’re all vanilla, so what
they’re all just roving ’round, especially so that

i’ll keep the door open for awhile, anyway, just in case he changes his mind
(maybe i’ll do, too)

life progresses and we all get left behind
(people love leaving us behind– so what)

but we can’t come out of love exhausted and more and more hateful everytime
(we just can’t and i can’t leave, too)

come sit and admire the deplorable view we made under moon’s grace
(we will wave it all down come the flare of seven a.m., and maybe many more marooned moons after that)

 
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